Le Cirque des Rêves
by mymywhatasly
Summary: Dramione. Night Circus AU. WIP.
1. Anticipation - Prelude

The circus arrives without warning.

One day, the field next to your farm is empty. The next morning, there is a circus that looms over you, silent, leached of all color. Nothing to be seen but alternating swirls and stripes of black and white. The snap of the flags atop the oddly sized tents shakes you of your reverie, carrying the bite of the coming autumn. You walk around the wrought-iron fence towards the entrance, with an intricately calligraphed sign stating

"Opens at Nightfall; Closes at Dawn"

You hear the murmurs of your neighbors warily approaching while you stare at the work of art that seems to be so fantastic, it must be made of magic, for it cannot be a simple clock. As you peer inside, you catch the smell of caramel and popped corn, hot chocolate, and smoke. But as soon as you place it, it is gone.

You go back and do your chores half-mindedly; the day is dragging. At last, twilight approaches. You make your way back across the field. It starts to get uncomfortably dark as your eyes adjust to the last of the bleeding sky's light. You startle as you hear a pop, and the first burst of light is almost blinding in the darkness. You can pick up lines and curls, staring until you see

"Le Cirque des Rêves"

Your mother's tedious lessons in French finally paid off. You smile to yourself - it's the circus of dreams.

The squeak of the wrought-iron gates opening makes your heart race and your palms sweat with an anticipation you haven't felt since you were a child.

Now you may enter.


	2. Unexpected Post

**New York, February 1873**

Lord Voldemort bows with a flourish, his firm arms stretched out as far as they go; a beatific smile on his face. He is met with enthusiastic applause from the men and women in the crowd, perspiring with excitement and the heat of the theater. His oil-slick hair glistens now that it's freed from his top hat, his blue eyes alive with mirth at yet another successful night of seducing the Muggles. It was almost too easy, the control of what they saw, what they weren't willing to see. The power never got old.

Backstage, a lawyer was pacing briskly with a small child in tow, who kept his head down and his hands in his coat pockets. His platinum hair hung in his face, left too long between haircuts and proper washing.

"Not just anyone can come back here, sir, this area is restricted to Lord Voldemort." His stage manager with his Russian accent is broad enough to give the lawyer slight pause, but he continues onward.

Just as the lawyer begins to protest, Lord Voldemort sweeps through, his eyes catching on the bright flash of platinum hair. He only knew of one person who had hair like that. His eyes land on the lawyer next to the child. "Well, fuck." He waves the lawyer and the child through, the lawyer shoves the child towards Voldemort and quickly leaves, with no farewell to either party.

There is a letter attached to the coat the boy wears, his hands still in his pockets. It is addressed to Lord Voldemort and he tears it off with little care to open it, revealing a letter addressed to Tom Riddle. He quickly scans the parchment, incredulous, and then takes the time to reread it, to read between the lines. This child is now in his care - remaining family is either dead or abandoned by the child's parents long ago, differences in opinion that tore them apart.

A mumble under his breath, forgetting himself, "he's probably a squib." Riddle starts as he sees the child react to his surroundings for the first time, his waif-like body quivering and his face contorting with anger, as the cold cup of tea next to him shatters.

Riddle wordlessly pulls the scattered shards and the seeping liquid back together without moving a muscle, staring at the child. The cup mends itself, not a fracture to be seen, the tea releasing a wisp of steam. "You might be interesting," he says, "what is your name."

"Draco."

Several months later, after the child has another outburst resulting in a broken window, Riddle pens a letter of his own and watches it leave through the broken window. It includes no address, but it reaches its destination across the ocean nonetheless.


	3. A Gentlemen's Wager

**London, October 1873**

It's been a while since Lord Voldemort has done a performance back on his native soil, but even without advanced notice and no matinees, the expensive tickets manage to sell quickly.

The shows are so packed, the women are constantly fanning themselves to stay upright, even with the chill in the air outside. At one point, those fans turn into graceful white birds who flock together to the top of the theater and move like a school of fish, only to drop back into their respective owner's laps once more. Shock and awe ripple through the crowd, rendering some speechless, while others show their appreciation through enthusiastic applause.

Except for one.

A gentleman in a timelessly cut grey suit and matching top hat stares with a gaze that does not falter, not once applauding or dropping his intensity. His piercing blue eyes merely observe, and he moves only once the curtain drops, his slight frame effortlessly moving through the crowd to the backstage area. Not a stage hand notices his quick jaunt, his footsteps quiet in the ruckus of the teardown. He knocks twice at the door.

He is face to face with Riddle, who appraises him with a smirk borne of recognition and slight annoyance.

"You hated it, didn't you?"

"It's a pleasure to see you too, Tom." Like his footsteps, his voice is quiet but carries a weight with it nonetheless.

He strides into the cramped room as Riddle swings the door open further, taking a seat on the only other empty chair in the room, a brown leather wingback with a button missing on the back. "You know how dangerous this could be, flaunting these so called illusions and tricks of deceit in front of the Muggles with the Wizengamot getting so close to deciding to enact the Statute of Secrecy."

"They don't believe what I do is real. They have others who do the same, although with less finesse than I do, obviously. They are a bunch of fish covered in feathers trying to convince the public they can fly, and I am simply a bird in their midst."

"Well not that much finesse, it looks as if you are losing your edge."

Riddle waves him off distastefully, finishing taking off his cufflinks and throwing his cape over the back of the chair he was occupying before he was interrupted. "I cannot be precise, they are already unnerved enough."

"Why did you invite me, Tom?"

"I was hoping you might be up for a game. It has been far too long since we've played."

He opens another door, calling for Draco, who is more put together than most children his age. He quietly enters, his shoes polished, his hair finally trimmed and swept out of his grey eyes, and stands just inside the door, staring with no fear and the man in the grey suit. His eyes tighten with hesitation as he feels the power in the room, the power that rolls off this mysterious man, the likes of which he has not encountered until he met Riddle. With a nudge, he enters the room and executes a perfect bow, murmuring "How do you do?"

"This is Draco, my...nephew. Draco, this is Dumbledore." He twists down to Draco's level and asks him to show this gentleman what he can do.

"You said I could not do that in front of anyone, you made me promise. No exceptions."

Tom growls softly, and grips his shoulder, staring into Draco's eyes until he acquiesces with a small nod. He stands upright once again, and pulls his pocket watch out of his vest and places it without care onto the desk. Draco stares at it intently until the hands of the watch start moving backwards, first slowly, then so rapidly, it makes the watch hum.

The man in the grey suit stares at Draco, but in an aside to Tom says, "Well that's not entirely impressive, Tom."

The watch shatters, just like the teacup. The man in the grey suit finally has a flicker of emotion dart across his face at the outburst, as Riddle quietly scolds Draco to put it back together.

"Well, that was unexpected. He does have a temper."

"Well he descends from the Black bloodline, a little madness is to be expected."

"I'll agree, but I do not wish it to end as quickly as last time. What do you say this one is more complex."

Tom agrees, thinking that Draco's pureblood lineage puts him ahead of anything the man in a grey suit can pick up off the street. As if reading his mind, the man says "Natural ability isn't everything, Tom, you know that."

"No, we don't."

The man in the grey suit hums in polite dismissal, and there is a faint shimmer in the air. Soon, Draco cannot understand what they are saying; it sounds like they are speaking underwater, and he can only make out soft timbre of their voices.

The man's piercing blue eyes alight upon Tom's flinty ones, as he asks if he is sure he is willing to risk his own family. Tom agrees, not caring that he is putting the child at risk as he is not truly his own.

The distorted noise ends as both men look at Draco; he is beckoned forward by Riddle, and told to outstretch his hand. He does with little reluctance as the man in the grey suit pulls a blue satin satchel out of his inner pocket and overturns it over the desk, a gold ring plinking onto the wood. He picks it up and grabs Draco's hand, sliding the ring onto his ring finger. The ring quickly adjusts around his finger and just when he is about to comment at the cleverness, it burns. Starting to panic as it feels like the same hellfire that made his parents perish, he cannot move his hand as the man is holding it firmly.

The ring fades completely, leaving an angry red, thin line on his delicate, pale skin.

When the man releases his hand, he shuffles back to the corner of the room, staring at him. The two men, now in the discussion of the layout of the game, pay the boy no heed as he tries to remain stoic through the remainder of the pain, although it is fading quickly and his curiosity is starting to get the best of him.

While discussing a venue, the man in the grey suit says he knows an up and coming family by the name of Weasley, he will make sure they are in a position to support the venue when the time is right.

Tom graciously allows the man in the grey suit the first move, as well as the time to collect a player of his own.

"Here, for when you find them." Tom hands him a satchel much like the one pulled out of the grey suit.

"You don't wish to do the honors yourself?"

"I trust you will see to it. Good luck."

The man leaves the room in a flurry, not glancing at either of the remaining occupants as he does so.

Tom Riddle turns to Draco in the corner, who is still staring at his hand.

"Why did you call that man Dumbledore?" The question takes Riddle by surprise. Draco insists, "It's not his name."

"No, it is not."

"It's one he wears like a hat, one he can take off when he wants."

Riddle smirks as he turns away, impressed by his insight, hopeful of what it means.


	4. Shades of Grey

**London, January 1874**

The exterior of the building matches the bleak London afternoon. An unexpected drop of the heavy brass knocker reverberates through the utilitarian building, bringing the Headmistress to the door to a man whose suit and hat matches the clouded sky. He gives his name, but the Headmistress quickly forgets it and is too embarrassed to inquire once more. The paperwork he proceeds to fill out later that afternoon is illegible and is eventually misplaced, never thought to be looked for again.

His inquiries after a child are more than just polite; they are odd and nonsensical. Nevertheless, the Headmistress excuses herself and brings back two boys and one girl. They are brought in one by one to the Headmistress' office; the first boy is dismissed quickly, and shrugs to indicate his confusion about the matter. Although the second boy sits in the office longer than the first boy, he is eventually dismissed as well.

The Headmistress beckons the girl with large brown eyes and unruly, curly hair through. She regards the man in the grey suit with wariness - it's the first time she's been called forward to speak to a potential family.

He quickly dismisses the Headmistress while the girl sits upon the chair in front of her desk, staring up at him. He evaluates her; her clothes are shabby, her hair needed a good cut and some nurturing, but her eyes held a spark that intrigued him.

He asks her a couple of questions that do not make sense to her, but she sees no reason to lie.

Finally, "How long have you been here?"

"As long as I can remember."

"You can read I presume?" She nods energetically and stumbles over her words in her eagerness to reply, "I like to read, there aren't enough books here. I've read all of them already."

With one last critical glance, he lets her know that she will be coming to study with him. Again, wariness creeps across her features.

"Do you wish to remain here?"

"...no. I do not."

"Very well; gather your things, I will conclude things with the Headmistress."

"Don't you want to know my name?"

"I am not interested in what superficial label was chosen for you. You may choose one for yourself if the occasion requires it."

She nods and walks away without looking back, anxious to what her new life will entail.


	5. Magic Lessons

**1875-1880**

New York. Boston. Chicago. Paris. Milan. London. Lord Voldemort and Draco move from city to city so frequently that it is no longer exciting to Draco. At first, he totes him around like something to be displayed, teaching him to charm all who he speaks to, expanding his knowledge of multiple languages, the way to persuade and lead an audience without their knowledge. Now, as he grows older and starts entering into the stage of life where he is no longer a mere boy but not quite a young man, he is left in dressing rooms and hotels.

His training is becoming less formal, but is more constant, with the only breaks being while Riddle is performing, asleep, or out and about in the cities they frequent at odd hours. One day, on the brink of his limit, Draco inquires to his training.

"Why do you keep pushing me like this, Uncle? Is it because of that man?"

"There is to be a game."

"Like chess?"

"No, not like chess, Draco."

The girl grows up in a sparse but vast townhouse in London. She is largely left alone, save for three hour sessions in the afternoon when she is visited by the man in the grey suit, and every Monday and Thursday when the nice woman with ginger hair and a soft smile comes to help her bathe, do her washing, and help her learn how to take care of her hair.

She is used to being left alone, however, and revels in it. She whiles away the time with reading and writing. Runes, arithmancy, history, mythology. She can read multiple languages but has no one to practice them with. Sometimes the man in the grey suit will take her to museums and libraries, often at odd hours and with little direction.

Every afternoon, they elaborate upon what she is reading, he guides her through written applications only, showing her the practical applications himself rarely. Even with her excessive readings and time spent studying while he is gone, she has a feeling of always trying to catch up. Her wish to be able to do these things some days is so poignant it drives her to tears of frustration.

"When will I be able to try?"

"When you are ready."

Tom Riddle travels with white birds to keep up appearances, but they end up travelling and being kept with his luggage. When they arrive, he notices one of them has a broken wing from the transport. He brings Draco into his dressing room.

"Fix it."

Draco concentrates, his palms quickly become clammy and sweat beads on the back of his neck. With a pulse, the bird lets out a mangled cry, its wing at an even worse angle than before.

Riddle takes it out of the cage and wrings its neck.

With tears in his eyes, Draco stares at him. "You could have fixed him, Uncle. Why didn't you?"

"Living things have different rules. You should practice with something more basic, more familiar." He vanishes the bird. "You need to understand your limitations so you can overcome them. You do want to win, don't you?"

Draco swallows heavily, nodding. He keeps it together until he gets to his small room, collapsing on the bed and crying for the unnecessary hurt for that bird and in his heart.

The girl goes to France with the man in the grey suit for a week with no notice. Excited for the change in routine and all the places to explore, she barely sleeps as she tries to take it all in. One evening, she is sent to a theater. She observes a man who uses mechanical traps, mirrors, and items tucked into obvious places. Her distaste for how obvious the man is being increases as the show goes on. She does not clap at the end of the evening.

The next evening, she is sent to an even bigger theater. She sees more people in one place than she has ever seen before. She is immediately entranced with the performer on the stage, his black hair tucked under his black velvet top hat, his blue eyes shocking even from her seat in the far corner. This man is not obvious; he is precise, he is effortless. He is doing this she has only seen in her lessons, things she has been told are to be kept a secret. She applauds as heartily as the rest of the crowd as he sweeps off the stage.

The following day, the man in the grey suit asks her the difference between the two performances. She recalls the mirrors and barely concealed tricks the first performer uses. She hesitates before commenting on the second performer.

"He is like you. Do you know that man?"

"I have known that man for a very long time."

"Why can no one else see the difference?"

"People see what they wish to see. And in most cases, what they are told they see."

Voldemort uses a knife with a snake gilded into the handle with emeralds for eyes to slice Draco's fingertips open one by one.

He watches intently as Draco calms himself, fighting back tears, his face morphing into concentration as he tries to stitch the skin back together, siphoning the blood back into his body.

He gives him only a moment before he picks the knife back up.

The man in the grey suit pulls out a satchel of dark green velvet and opens it, overturning it on the table where they have their lessons. A silver ring falls out.

"Today we are going to learn about binding. Put that on your left ring finger."

She picks up the ring, dubious due to its size, and is shocked when it starts sizing itself around her finger. She yelps as it stings, dissolving into her skin, leaving an angry red line that vaguely looks like an ouroboros.

When she asks to what she is bound, she only gets a vague reply, "To an obligation you already had, and a person you will not meet for some time."

Their lesson over for the day, she tries to lose herself in her studies, but she finds her gaze drifting back to her new scar, twisting and turning it in the fading afternoon light.


	6. Le Bateleur

**London, May - June 1884**

A few months before her nineteenth birthday, the man in the grey suit moves her into a small, cozy flat above a bookstore. It is run by a man and his new bride, who are very friendly and keep an eye on her. The man and his ginger locks remind her of the kind woman who came to take care of her growing up, although the roguish smile and scars that marr one side of his face are his own. His wife is a stunning French woman, and although the girl bristles at her at first, she finds a great conversational partner in her both in French and in books.

No longer under lock and key, the girl roams the streets of London at her leisure, taking it all in and finding out-of-the-way shops and cafés to record her observations. Her formal lessons have finally ended, and she keeps a small notebook on her at all times, only a fraction of the size of the ones she keeps at home. At the beginning of each book, she draws what looks to be a branch of a tree, each section of information she collects a branch of said tree. She has a forest of trees at her small flat.

One overcast day, the clouds heavy with the promise of rain, she leaves a café deciding to pay a visit to her mentor. She stops in front of the building; it sits empty, long-abandoned, the windows boarded up. She makes to head back for her flat and her heart drops as she realizes she doesn't have her notebook. Retracing her steps, she comes back to the café just as the sky bursts open, ducking under the awning.

She notices a man greedily leafing through her notebook. She stomps over to his table, ready to give him a good dressing down, and is caught off-guard by his obscene handsomeness. His mocha skin is practically glowing, his hair cropped close to his head under his hat. She clears her throat to catch his attention. His burnt umber eyes snap up at her, his smirk alerting her to the fact that he knew exactly how handsome he was.

"I believe you have my book."

"I'm sorry, you dropped it and I tried to give it back, but you walk rather quickly. I couldn't catch up with you." He reluctantly closes it and hands the book in question back to her.

"My deepest gratitude...Mister?" She trails off and catches herself wishing to prolong the interaction.

"Zabini. Blaise Zabini."

It doesn't quite ring true, but who is she to call someone else's bluff when she carries much more within herself?

He looks up at her expectantly, waiting for her to return the favor.

"Pleasure; I'm Hermione Granger."

_The Winter's Tale_ was her favorite of Shakespeare's works, and she had tried many variating last names, but this flowed out of her mouth so naturally she stuck with it.

"Might I interest you in having a drink with me?"

She does another cursory glance at him; his clothes are quite impeccably tailored to him, and he has an air of someone who has seen things bigger and beyond himself. She is intrigued. She agrees but only if she can pick the place.

"It'll be a wet walk, but since I apparently walk quickly, it shouldn't be too much of a problem."

He smiles at her and gestures for her to lead the way. They dart a couple of streets down and she ducks into an alley, only slightly apprehensive as they cut through a narrow passage and she feels him following closely behind. She comes upon her favorite hidey-hole, a warm French-style café that immediately reminded her of her first trip to Paris the first time she saw it.

They enter, and she smiles at the proprietor as she grabs her usual table in the corner. The proprietor immediately brings over two glasses and a bottle of cabernet, asking after the girl. Blaise's eyes soak in the whole scene, listening to their rapidly spoken conversation in French, his interest in the girl increasing with each moment that passes. She orders an assortment of bread, cheeses, and meats, and thanks the proprietor.

"I must say Hermione, if I may be so bold as to call you Hermione, you certainly are full of surprises."

"Well, it reminds me of Paris. And they don't mind if I take up this little corner for an afternoon or two."

The proprietor brings over the food, and they make idle small talk between bites. Once they finish, and are on their second bottle of wine, Hermione gathers the courage to ask him where he is from.

"You carry yourself as if you were not from here."

"I'm not, not really. My mother and I have moved frequently, following her latest husband around. My father died when I was young, and she hates to be lonely."

She senses a reluctance to go further, and there is a lull in the conversation.

Blaise embraces it.

"There are charms in your book. Charms, talismans, symbols, are they not?"

Hermione is so taken aback, she is rendered speechless for a moment. He continues on, unhindered, "_La Roue de Fortune_, the Wheel of Fortune. The card in your book, I know that card. I have a deck myself."

Now she is just dumbfounded, staring at him with her mouth slightly agape. He smirks at her reaction, and answers her unspoken question.

"One of my mother's husbands had a family who was well-versed in the arts of divination. They unfortunately didn't last long, but he was eager to teach."

"Could you read for me?"

He looks around the room, clearly unsure of doing something so bold in front of other people.

"They won't pay us any mind, I promise."

He pulls them from an inner pocket of his jacket, they are wrapped in an Italian leather pouch. She asks to touch them. He agrees.

She pulls the first card up and looks at it. _Le Bateleur_, The Magician. She smiles to herself and replaces it without showing him.

"So now that I have shown you mine, can you show me yours?" He gestures to her notebook once again.

Now that she thinks he might have a vague understanding, she attempts to elaborate for him but her thoughts are all jumbled with the look he keeps throwing her way.

"Look, I think it might be better if I just show you."

She takes him back out into the alley just outside the café, after he insists on paying, and asks him to be still. She closes her eyes, and all of the sudden he is surrounded not by bricks and the smell of rain-damp cobblestones, but in a forest. Surrounded by massive trees, birds whistling, sunshine beaming down upon his skin, making him warm. His eyes widen as he realizes what exactly she is doing. He looks down at her, her eyes scrunched in concentration, and he lays his hand upon her cheek. He whispers to himself "_le bateleur_" and grips her waist.

She starts and her eyes bore into his when he kisses her.

Passerby smile at the young couple kissing in the rain.


	7. False Pretenses

**July - November 1884**

Lord Voldemort gives no formal reason for his retirement; in fact, it is kept relatively quiet, although his erratic performance schedule allows him to delve into obscurity with little comment.

Tom Riddle still tours his nephew as a spiritual medium. Draco is exasperated that this is where his life has currently led him, however Riddle will not let him quit until he can come up with a suitable replacement for both the practice and the income.

"These people mean nothing," he pinches the bridge of his nose with an icy edge to his tone, "they cannot even begin to grasp what it is they think they see and hear, and it is easier for them to believe they are receiving miraculous transmissions from the afterlife. Why not take advantage of that, especially when they are willing to part with their money for something so simple?"

Draco mashes his mouth in a firm, thin line. Not only is he sick of having this same exhausting argument, he is just plain exhausted - their travel schedule rivals that of their excursions when Lord Voldemort was at his peak. It is only when he collapses in the middle of a reading that Riddle finally allows him to take a single day off.

Riddle eyes him with disgust and shoves his feet off the chaise Draco has fallen asleep reading upon.

"Get up. We leave in the morning, I do not wish to deal with the hordes of people leaving on holiday."

"We just got settled, Uncle, may I at least have a few more days," Draco mumbles incoherently, still half asleep and slightly peaky.

His eyes fly open as Riddle grabs him by the throat and drags him upwards only to toss him onto the heavy wooden coffee table along the chaise. The air is sucked from his lungs from the impact and the sick crack of his wrist breaking loudly reverberates through the room.

"We will be leaving tomorrow, Draco. Pack your things."

It takes Draco over an hour to set the bones back where they belong.

Blaise sits in Hermione's flat, where he is fiddling with a deep purple ribbon made of velvet.

"It's not working, I don't understand why this isn't working." He throws the ribbon at his feet and reclines upon her couch, tossing his arm over his eyes.

"It's a simple charm," she murmurs as she finishes up a note from her large spread on her desk. She glances up at him in amusement and says a little louder, "A ribbon for each element, bound with knots and intent. It's like your cards, only influencing the subject instead of divining its meaning. But it won't work if you don't believe it will, you know that."

He waves her off, grumbling under his breath about how his intent is just fine, thank you, but who can bloody knot a ribbon in on itself.

A sharp knock at the door makes her snap to attention, leaping to her feet and dragging Blaise out of the room, closing the door and locking and silencing her bedroom with him in it before he can let out so much as an indignant squawk.

Only one person knocks on that door.

She smooths down her hair and scrubs some remaining ink off of her hand, trying to appear more composed than she feels, and opens the door.

"You will be applying for an assistant position with this man," he brandishes a card with little flourish, "you will likely need a name. I have arranged an interview for 11:00 sharp. I have done what I can to ensure you are in the most advantageous position for this, but you need to ensure you are the one who gets it."

"I have a name."

His eyes slide to the locked door, and Hermione subconsciously moves her body to try and block his line of sight.

"Is this the beginning of the game?"

"As I said, it is merely an advantageous position. You will need to focus, you cannot afford a distraction." He pointedly looks at her and then again at the closed bedroom door. He turns and leaves without another word, and Hermione sags against the door frame before schooling her features to be calm as she shuts the door.

She takes another deep breath to steel herself before she goes to free Blaise. She knows he will have plenty to say about shuffling him about, and she is not ready to elaborate about the man in the grey suit when it will just cause more questions.

She flings the door open loudly to the sight of him pacing, speaking Italian in a tone that is more petulant than annoyed. It does little to assuage the guilt she feels about the situation, but she can't help but admire him all the same.

He makes eye contact with her and purses his lips together, gesturing for her to explain.

"It was part of the stipulations that I not invite men over, the shopkeeper below must have spotted you and got word to the landlady, I'm sorry."

His face relaxes, and he nods as he crosses the room to pull her into a hug. "I figured as much but a little heads up would be nice. Besides, who knew you could drag a grown man across this flat so quickly? I'll have to be better on my feet next time." He smirks, and she knows she is forgiven. For now.

"Come help me with another project if you've given up on that ribbon of yours."

He sweeps her back into the room, her project temporarily forgotten.

Without preamble, Riddle tells Draco that they will be staying in New York for the foreseeable future.

They unpack into their dusty townhouse, musty from being closed up for so long, and Riddle hides himself away on the topmost floor. Draco takes up a life of leisure he only dreamed about for the last few months, reading book after book, taking walks in the morning and evenings. He breaks things only to rebuild them time and time again - china, clocks, turning old newspapers into origami cranes and back again. He becomes adept at fabric manipulation to his shock - his clothes tailored so well they look bespoke, luxurious. He goes up at every meal to knock on the door and remind Riddle to eat, but eventually starts leaving trays that go mostly untouched outside the door.

One day the door is ajar and he peers into the crack after setting the tray on the ground.

Riddle is standing in the light of a sunbeam, his arm shimmering and disappearing from wrist to elbow. Draco gasps and tries to move away, but not before Riddle spots him and locks the door from across the room.


	8. Target Practice

**London, December 1884**

Ronald Bilius Weasley sits in his office with his feet perched upon his desk, his tie loosened from his neck and a snifter of brandy precariously hanging from his left hand. His right holds a theatrical review from the London _Times_, clipped neatly and carefully by his assistant. There are additional copies tracked down for posterity, as this one will not last the next hour. It is a positive review, some would say a great one, but there is one sentence that sours it in its entirety. "Ronald Weasley continues to push the boundaries of the modern stage, dazzling his audiences with spectacle that is almost transcendent."

In truth, it's not even a sentence, but a singular word. _Almost_. The implication that transcendence is out there and he has yet to achieve it is so unbearable, he surges out of his chair and proceeds to stab the review into a dartboard hidden between bookcases with a letter opener. He walks backwards towards his desk, grabbing the half-empty decanter of brandy on a nearby shelf and refills his snifter. There hasn't been a review that has incensed him this badly in quite some time.

_Almost._

Ron lives for the reactions, genuine reactions. Not polite applause, not a gentle look of awe, but raw, intense reactions that move people to get up out of their seats and clap until their hands sting. He often values the reactions over the show itself. A show without an audience is nothing, after all. In the response of the audience, that is where the power of performance lives.

_Almost._

He drains his snifter and bellows for his assistant, Hermione.


	9. Darkness and Stars - Interlude

With your ticket in hand, you follow a continuous line of patrons into the circus, watching the rhythmic motion of the black-and-white clock as you wait. Beyond the ticket booth the only way forward is through a heavy striped curtain. One by one each person passes through it, vanishing from sight. When it is your turn, you pull back the fabric and step forward, only to be engulfed by darkness as the curtain closes again. It takes your eyes a few moments to adjust, and then tiny dots of light begin appearing like stars, lining the dark walls in front of you. And while moments before you were so close to your fellow circusgoers that you could have touched them, now you are alone as you feel your way tentatively forward through a mazelike tunnel. The tunnel twists and turns, the tiny lights providing the only illumination. You have no way of discerning how far you have gone or which direction you are moving in. Finally you reach another curtain. Fabric that feels as soft as velvet beneath your hands parts easily when you touch it. The light on the other side is blinding.


	10. Truth or Dare

**Concord, Massachussettes, September 1897**

Edward Lupin, affectionately known as Teddy, sits on one of the lowermost branches of an oak tree, his sister Cassiopeia and the three neighbor children sitting above him throwing acorns at his head. If there is one consolation in his life about having an older sister, it's the fact that she was burdened with the name of a constellation. If you asked him, there were some family traditions that should have just died out, and he was glad it his father had fought for having his pick.

They are playing a game of truth or dare, and Teddy is trying to keep quiet, hoping to stay out of the mischief the other four always seem to find themselves in.

One acorn. "Teddy." Another acorn. "_Teddy._"

"What, Cassi?"

"Truth or Dare."

He contemplates for a second. Truth is a copout for this group - his sister and the three Black children would tease him relentlessly if he chose it. He sighs. "Dare."

Cassiopeia taps her chin thoughtfully, her eyes sparkle with mirth as she looks across the field to the black and white striped tents set up over half a mile away.

"I dare you to sneak into the Night Circus. And you must bring something back as proof! I mean it Teddy, not just touching the outside of the fence."

He should have known it was going to escalate to this point, afterall Cassi's dares tend to be "fashionable", but he sighs once again as he hops down off the tree; the oldest Black boy throws more acorns at him on the way down.

This is the second time that the circus has come through, just as mysterious as the first time. It showed with no warning, with not so much as a bent blade of grass. The first time he was only six and his parents deemed him too young; but last night he was finally allowed to step through those wrought-iron gates, his eyes practically bulging out of his head. This was no circus with peanuts and elephants and tigers - it was a circus meant to be explored. Everywhere he looked, there were too many options to choose from. Acrobats, performing with no net as you stand directly below them, your neck craned back as far as you can stand. Small tents filled with infinite amounts of mirrors, and infinite Teddys. Hidden stands for hot chocolate, lines for apples dipped in caramel, and everything in black and white, down to the caramel. His disappointment when his parents bodily dragged him out was palpable.

His reminiscing brings him up to the gates; it looks different in the daytime. The faint smell of chocolate and smoke from the bonfire still lingers, but everything almost looks washed out in the daylight. Ordinary.

And completely and utterly silent.

He sees the sign below the one that lights up at twilight in plain writing.

"Trespassers Will Be Exsanguinated"

Well he is not quite sure what that means, but it does not sound pleasant. He circles counterclockwise around the gate, away from the warning sign and away from the view of the oak tree in the distance. The fence itself is very tall, definitely deterring anyone from climbing. But they did not take into account thin and knobby-kneed ten year old boys and their penchant for following ill-advised dares, and he is able to squeeze through the foot-wide opening.

He waits for the magic of the circus to hit him once he crosses the threshold, but it is just as plain on the inside as it looked on the outside. If anything it is more disconcerting for there is not a single person to be heard or seen. There isn't even so much as a stray piece of cloth or paper cup that he can take back as proof for his dare. Deciding to wander further, he walks past tents reading "Flights of Fancy", "Ethereal Enigmas", and even "Fearsome Beasts & Strange Creatures" and doesn't hear a single one so much as breathe. He wonders if they are kept in another tent during the day and during his musings, he turns a corner and almost runs directly into the girl.

She is standing in the middle of the path between the tents, just standing there as though she is waiting for him. She looks to be about his own age, and she wears what can only be called a costume, as they certainly aren't normal clothes. White boots with lots of buttons, white stockings, and a white dress made from bits of every fabric imaginable, scraps of lace and silk and cotton all combined into one, with a short white military jacket over it, and white gloves. Every inch from her neck down is covered in white, which makes her red hair exceptionally shocking.

"You are not supposed to be here," the girl says quietly but firmly. She doesn't even sound surprised.

"Uh, I...I know. I'm...I'm sorry?" He squeaks out, unnerved by being caught. _Stupid, stupid, stupid Teddy_.

"You should probably leave before anyone else sees you," she says, glancing over her shoulder steadily. "Which way did you come in?"

"Uh, I..." he turns around but cannot tell which way he came from. "I'm not sure."

"That's alright, come with me." She turns on her heel and doesn't check to see if he followed. She takes them through twists and turns and as they appear back to the fence, she speaks again. "You can sneak through the bars?"

He nods and makes his way through the bars again, although this section is a little tighter than the side he came through. He turns around as soon as he is through to face her. "Thank you."

She smiles at him, "you're welcome, but you should be more careful. You're not supposed to come during the day, it's trespassing."

He weighs the risk of sounding stupid again, and blurts "it was a dare."

She stares at him and he continues on to fill the silence. "What does exsanguinated mean anyway?"

"It means to drain you of all of your blood, but they don't do that anymore. I don't think." She turns around and heads back towards the labyrinth of tents.

"Wait! I was supposed to bring something back...for the dare."

The girl smiles again. She looks thoughtful, then she peels her right glove off and hands it to him through the bars. Teddy hesitates.

"It's okay, take it. I have a whole box of them."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, Teddy."

It's not until he makes it back to the tree, which is empty, that he realizes that he never told her his name. He puts the glove in his pocket.


	11. Associates and Conspirators

**London, February 1885**

Midnight dinners are a tradition at the house of Ron Weasley. What was once a passing fancy of Ron's, with his love of good food and dislike of proper etiquette, combined with his odd stage hours, became a regular occurrence that many knew an invitation to was most coveted.

An air of mystery shrouds the first and subsequent dinners, enhanced by the ever-varying guest list and amount of courses, for they are rarely the same. The extensive multi-course dinners, whose first plates hitting the tables at precisely midnight began to take on a life of their own. There are never menus; some dishes are identifiable, some are not. Beef Wellington, foie gras, imported sea bass from Chile, succulent scallops seared to perfection and drowning in a beurre blanc, seared beef imported from Japan. Meats (was it duck? Goose?) braised in sauces (plum? Currant?), exotic fruits, vegetables sliced so thin you could see through them. A dessert encased in glass, which turns out to be blown sugar, with each person's containing a different flavor mousse within.

These dinners are just an extension of his theater - he revels in the reactions of his guests, closest friends, and secret enemies, for no one is immune to the charms of a midnight dinner. He rests at the head of his ornate, gilded table in a red tufted chair which matches the interior of his large townhome, a veritable lion's den of gold and crimson. To supplement the fun, there is always a performer; a singular pianist, troupes of dancers, even a conjurer or two.

Tonight however, there is a limited guest list, a mere five attendees plus the host. The first to arrive is Madame McGonagall - a retired Scottish prima ballerina who has been a family friend for as long as Ron can remember, whose sharp sense of wit and even sharper sense of style kept Ron from making a complete fool of himself when he first stepped into the spotlight. She gives Ron a cursory glance as he takes her overcoat, deeming him satisfactory to remain in her presence for the remainder of the evening, as is her way.

Second to arrive is Theodore Nott, a third generation architect and engineer from an old family in London who is considered unparalleled in his field, if a bit timid and reclusive. Shocked at the invitation, he deemed it impolite to turn it down, for even he understood the sheer magnitude of such an invite. He grabs a champagne flute as soon as his coat is taken, and noting the limited number of guests so far, sidles up to the edge of the room, his eyes taking in his surroundings.

Fred and George Weasley, no stranger to their brother, but a bit put out that he waited this long to finally allow them to one of his dinners appear out of thin air, sporting mischievous grins and head directly toward Madame McGonagall - the only ones who can make her blush. They dabble in many things, but their keen sense of observation along with the study of how people move and flow have allowed them to establish a business of consulting that flourishes underground as well as it does on paper.

The last to arrive is a man in a grey suit and hat who gives his name to the person at the door as Mr. A. D- and he glides the room, even quieter than Mr. Nott. Ron appears from the foyer with his assistant Hermione in tow, whose eyes widen briefly at the appearance of her mentor. She schools her features quickly, and proceeds to hand Ron a stack of papers, leaving the room at the turn of her heel.

"Welcome! Now, although this meeting has a business nature, I refuse to discuss such things until the conclusion of dinner, and I am starved. If everyone could please take a seat!" He escorts Madame McGonagall to his immediate right, and everyone files in, the table just large enough for the six of them.

Mr. Nott is entranced as the twins banter back and forth with Madame McGonagall, his eyes flitting back and forth between the two as they fluidly complete each other's sentences, smiling in spite of himself and his strict upbringing.

"Now boys, I trust you are not going to embarrass yourselves in front of polite company," she sternly looks upon the twins across the table with a small smirk upon her face.

"Of course not," George says, his face too innocent.

"This isn't polite company." Fred says, his eyes landing upon hers and ducking as she flicks water across the table at him, the only breech in manners you will see from her all evening.

The clock strikes twelve and the first course is set upon the table with a flair that will not die out in the following eight courses.

The man in the grey suit contributes very little to the conversation throughout the dinner, but tucks into his dessert with gusto the likes of which the rest hadn't seen all night.

Once the final plate has been cleared away, Ron stands, gesturing for them to all move to his study. Brandy and coffee are distributed among the room, with the exception of the man in the grey suit, lingering amongst the bookshelves and the smoke hanging in a low cloud. Ron gestures to Hermione and she brings forth stacks and scrolls of paper, attempting to put them in some semblance of order, Ron waving her off impatiently.

"Your company has been requested this evening because I have a project I am beginning, an endeavor, you might say. I do believe it is an endeavor that will appeal to all of you, and that you may each, in your unique ways, aid in the planning. Your assistance, which is entirely voluntary, will be both appreciated and well compensated," he says.

As everyone leans forward, he unfurls the top most rolled paper and the blueprint is difficult to read amongst the scribbles and spill marks of both coffee and brandy.

"A circus?" says Fred, grinning as he gives George a look which can only be described as equal parts hopeful and loaded with anticipation. "How marvelous!"

"Like a carnival?" clarifies Nott, sounding mildly confused and slightly disappointed.

"More than a circus, really, like no circus anyone has ever seen!" Ron starts circling the room, gesturing with his brandy glass, his voice rising with each sentence. "Not a single large tent but a multitude of tents, each with a particular exhibition. No elephants or clowns. No, something more refined than that. Nothing commonplace. This will be different, this will be an utterly unique experience, a feast for the senses. Theatrics sans theater, an immersive entertainment. We will destroy the presumptions and preconceived notions of what a circus is and make it something else entirely, something...NEW."

They each cast sidelong glances at the next, trying to decide if he is either starting something that will be a work of art or if he is completely off his head. Ron smiles at each of them, not taking in the general hesitancy of the room.

"Only in the beginning stages of course, I figured you would all be the best people to help bring my vision to life!"

"Well, first of all, quit drinking brandy and coffee next to these designs, honestly Mr. Weasley however are we supposed to navigate through this disaster," Madame McGonagall scolds in her way.

That does it. The group collectively starts pouring over the designs, even the man in the grey suit steps closer and offers a suggestion that is both impressive and well-thought out, and immediately written down in a margin left on the bottom right corner of the sheet.

It's first light before the last person leaves the steps of Mr. Weasley's townhome. They are all in.


	12. Condolences

**New York, March 1885**

Tom Riddle, stage name Lord Voldemort, has a rather small obituary in the _Times._ An unfortunate heart attack in his own home took his life far too young, survived only by his nephew Draco. Funeral services will be private, but condolences may be forwarded to the theater.

Although small, the obituary still drew much attention. First stacks, then eventually sacks, of letters arrive. There are enough flowers that it makes the first two floors look like a greenhouse. Draco tries to put the letters off to the side, but the overwhelming smell of lilies and roses he cannot stand, and he turns each bouquet into narcissuses. When he is threatened to be swallowed by the post, he brews a pot of tea and sits down, bracing himself for the amount of tripe no doubt coming from people who only set eyes on Tom once.

What he isn't prepared for is the obscene amount of marriage proposals from various acquaintances, fathers marrying off their barely of-age daughters to someone they had only met once while he was a boy. If he saw another letter describing him as smart and charming, it would be too soon.

A heavy grey envelope falls out of a stack, and unlike most, it is addressed to Tom Riddle. Within is not another proposal, thank goodness, but not even a note of sympathy. It simply contains two words.

_Your move._

A shiver of anticipation travels through his body - or is it dread. Disregarding the remaining letters, he pulls a key out of a magically concealed pocket and heads up to the top floor. He unlocks three separate locks, and whispers a counter-enchantment, until the door creaks open and he steps in.

"What's this about?"

A shimmer of a figure turns around at the sound of his voice.

Tom Riddle reads the note and laughs.


	13. The Contortionist's Tattoo

**London, September 1885**

After the first dinner, "Circus Dinners" are held almost monthly at Ron Weasley's home. Most of the original group are in attendance, with the exception of Mr. A. D- who rarely comes. However, this evening, only Madame McGonagall and the twins are present. Nott is in Germany tracking down a very elusive couple who make clocks for a piece for the circus.

Entertainment was not scheduled, but nonetheless it arrives. She gives her name as Luna, no further elaboration. She is small, waif-like, vaguely fey-like. Her cornflower hair is elaborately braided upon her head and she wears a cloak much too large for her frame. Hermione is scrambling trying to figure out how to explain what is actually going on, but in Ron-like fashion, he blurts "What brings you here at this hour?"

"I have always been nocturnal."

Her smile that accompanies her cryptic sentiment is warm and contagious. The twins beg to let her stay. Ron gestures for Hermione to take her cloak, and she reveals a dress that is much too scandalous for polite company. Good thing this isn't polite company. Madame McGonagall eyes her with a sharp countenance, and gives her a brisk nod, indicating her approval with the overall look. But that isn't what captures everyone's attention, it is her tattoo. It is a flowing waterfall of alchemical and astrological symbols, ancient marks for planets and elements all emblazoned in black ink upon her fair skin. Mercury. Lead. Antimony. A crescent moon sits at the nape of her neck; an Egyptian ankh near her collarbone. There are other symbols as well: Norse runes, Chinese characters. There are countless tattoos, and yet they meld and flow into one design gracefully adorning her like an elegant, unusual piece of jewelry.

When she catches everyone staring at it, she simply states, "It is part of who I was, who I am, and who I will be."

As everyone takes their seats, she places herself towards the head of the table, slightly in front of the piano, with a tranquil look upon her face and she closes her eyes. Immediately, it becomes clear what Luna does - she is a contortionist. Most contortionists can only bend in one direction, but she is unique as she can bend in either direction. Everyone is silent as they sit entranced, no one touches their first course for a whole seven minutes.

Ron breaks the revery shortly after that.

"This is what I've been talking about! This is the precise flavor that the circus should be. Unusual yet beautiful. Provocative while remaining elegant. This is kismet, her coming here tonight. We simply have to have her, I will not accept anything less. Hermione, get this lady a chair." She agrees after five courses and some wine to join the not-yet-running circus.

She quickly becomes Ron's favorite.


End file.
